


Tell Me You Love Me

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cutting, Depression, F/M, Mentions of Sex, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It's shitty though, you know?” He hasn't spoken in so long that you had assumed he was done talking. You listen carefully, yet keep your eyes on the road. The night is quiet and still. Not many cars are out, considering the time, and only a select few shops are still brightly lit. “I mean, not just the nightmares and the bullshit self harm, but the feeling of utter worthlessness I get when it all goes down. And like, even though I know you love me, there's always the shred of doubt that makes me need reassurance like a fucking two year old.”</p><p>You stay quiet for a moment, taking in his words and wondering how long it'll be before you catch him trying to slit his own throat and end all of this. The thought makes it hard for you to keep it together. “I really don't mind reminding you how much you mean to me.”</p><p>***</p><p>A story in which Dave hates himself and Jade doesn't know how to help</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me You Love Me

In the fifteen years you have known Dave, you've managed to train yourself to always ask how he's doing. In the last fourteen of those fifteen years, you've learned to tell the difference between when he's lying and when he's giving an honest answer. In the last ten years, you've learned when it is appropriate to call him out on lying and when to keep your mouth shut, but keep a close eye on him. In the nine years the two of you have been dating, you've learned how to help calm him down after a night terror and how to make him feel safe and loved. And in the two years you two have been sleeping in the same bed, you've managed to train your body to wake up every few hours, just to make sure he's still sleeping next to you. 

You learned a long time ago to keep an eye on him, to worry about him, and to make sure that no matter how unhappy he gets, he's safe and alive. You know when to hold him and let him cry and you know when to read to him and make him something to eat. You know when to take him out for a drive, letting him talk and talk forever about everything and nothing. You know when to let him fuck you until you can't feel below your waist anymore, or until he's too exhausted to be awake any longer. You know when to tell him you love him and when to give him his space. 

But you never know how to handle it when you wake up and he's not there. You have a moment of panick, so petrifying and horrible that you feel as though you can't breathe. You wonder what he could be doing and whether it's something as mild and normal as having to pee in the middle of the night or something as soul crushing and terrifying as jumping off the roof of your apartment complex and ending it all. Then you stop yourself from crying and search for him, first to the bathroom, where the door is locked and the light is on. When you knock, he doesn't make a sound. You can't handle the thought of him ending his own life, so you knock harder, more frantically, and when he still doesn't reply, you start slamming your shoulder against the door, hoping to break it down. It's only after a few tries that you realize all your doing is wasting time, so you pick the lock. 

Your eyes sting. He's alive, very much alive. His tired eyes, puffy and red from lack of sleep, stare at you. He looks scared, but he also looks annoyed. He didn't want you in here. He didn't want you around. You don't really care right now. You tear the razor out of his hand, stopping him from making anymore cuts to his wrists and forearms. He doesn't protest. You make an effort to soften your gaze, because you don't think he needs a lecture about how terrified you were and how he almost gave you a heart attack. He doesn't need anymore pain right now. 

“Can-” His voice is weak and shaky. His confidence is gone. He clears his throat and opens his mouth again. “Can we go for a drive?” You clean his wounds first before replying, but when ever you glance at him, you try to keep your gaze sympathetic and soft and kind. When he's not bleeding anymore, you press a sweet kiss to the top of his head. 

“Of course we can go for a drive.” You smile at him, because you think that seeing a smile might lift his spirits, even just the smallest bit. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close and resting his head against your shoulder. You hug him back, squeezing so tight that you're not sure he can breathe. 

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you. I love you more than anything. I could never live without you.”

You don't bother changing out of your pajama's or putting shoes on to go out. It doesn't take long for you to grab your keys and your wallet and head out the door. It's around two in the morning and you're almost certain that there's nothing open except for night clubs, fast food restaurants, and a 24 hour coffee shop. It doesn't matter. You need to get out of that house, as far away from the blood and the night terrors and all the pain as possible. The two of you are one more incident from packing your bags and heading off to another city in another state. So you drive and let him talk about things that aren't important and things that are. His words come in short bursts with extended periods of scilence inbetween. It's normal for him. 

“It's shitty though, you know?” He hasn't spoken in so long that you had assumed he was done talking. You listen carefully, yet keep your eyes on the road. The night is quiet and still. Not many cars are out, considering the time, and only a select few shops are still brightly lit. “I mean, not just the nightmares and the bullshit self harm, but the feeling of utter worthlessness I get when it all goes down. And like, even though I know you love me, there's always the shred of doubt that makes me need reassurance like a fucking two year old.”

You stay quiet for a moment, taking in his words and wondering how long it'll be before you catch him trying to slit his own throat and end all of this. The thought makes it hard for you to keep it together. “I really don't mind reminding you how much you mean to me.” You honestly can't imagine much without him. Your entire plan for the future involves him being there and alive and happy. You can't lose him. 

“I know. It's just that I feel like shit. I have to depend on you for everything and it makes me feel like literally the biggest fuck up of a boyfriend in the state. I'm tired, babe. Of pretty much everything.”

You're shaking. You think you're going to start bawling any second now and you can't really drive. You pull into a parking lot of an old coffee shop that must have closed years ago. You put your face in your hands, trembling so much that you don't think you'll be able drive for a while. You can't feel the tears yet, but your eyes sting. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Hey, um, look, I didn't want to make you cry. Do you want to go inside and get a coffee? I can pay. I brought my wallet.” You look up at him, wiping a few tears that managed to escape away from your eyes.

“Dave, it's two in the morning and I'm not wearing any pants.” He looks down, as if he didn't notice that you left clad in just one of his T-shirts and a piece of underwear. 

“Then I'll get it. I'll be right back, what do you want?” You laugh ever so slightly at his attempt to make you feel better. It's cute and sweet and you really don't mind the idea of a nice cup of coffee. 

“Decaff with cream and sugar, please.” You say, your eyes drying. He grins back at you and steps out of the car. You watch him walk into the coffee shop, which apparently isn't closed at all. You wouldn't have been able to tell from the paint job and horrible lighting inside. He looks ridiculous, shirtless, in his Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff pajama bottoms, with only one outrageously old flip flop on, and of course, his aviators. You almost laugh at the thought of how whoever's working right now will react to him until you catch a glimpse of an old scar on his tricep. It's hard to see in the dark of night, but it's definitely there and it manages to snap you back to reality. You feel like crying again. 

Nearly fifteen minuets later, he comes out with two cups of coffee, a white paper bag, and a silly grin. “Man babe, you should have seen it. Some shirtless asshole walks into a coffee shop at two in the morning with a pair of shades on when it's pitch black outside and orders two coffees and a dick load of crescent rolls. If I were working there, that'd be a hella fucking funny story to tell to my friends.”

“I'm glad you're amused, cool kid. Now were is that dick load of crescent rolls you were referring to?” He hands you the bag, which is still warm and smells like heaven. It's nearly full of delicious, fluffy pastries. They're buttery and soft and warm enough to have just come out of the oven. You feel a surge of happiness and the two of you spend hours in the car, munching on crescent rolls and sipping your coffee. You listen to his shitty music and joke around and feel genuinely happy. You don't find yourself home, in your bed once again, until it's nearly five in the morning. You don't care, because the last thing you see when you go to bed is Dave's smile. It'll be a good night. 

It's not for another three weeks that he starts showing signs of unhappiness again. It's subtle, but he's slowly starting to eat less and he doesn't bother to tell jokes or give out witty, sarcastic comments. He's quieter. His mood is slowly getting more and more somber. He's touching you more. You find his hand placed delicately on your shoulder or around your waist whenever the two of you are together. He falls asleep holding you close, as if you might disappear if he doesn't. You remember reading that it's a symptom for anxiety, to grasp onto something important, just to make sure it's real and there. You don't mind. 

He doesn't speak as much anymore. You can hear his disinterest in everything and his utter lack of motivation. He doesn't care about doing anything anymore. You can tell that even the things he used to really enjoy are boring and pointless to him. He sleeps less. He eats less. He cuts more. You don't know how to help. You're stressed, you're tired, you're often crying. On your darkest days, you wonder if it's all worth it. 

But then he kisses you. He kisses you for the first time in three long, upsetting weeks, and you melt with love and adoration for him. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer and closer. His body is warm. You don't even care whether or not you're going to have sex, you just want him close to hold and cherish and love with every bone in your body. His hands travel up your shirt, gliding across your skin. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. You squirm under his touch. You break away long enough to pull your shirt over your head. He carefully takes off his aviators, setting them down on a nearby surface. You take in his expression. It's difficult to read, even for you, but you think you can detect something that might be hunger. He wants you. You almost cry because there's still a glimmer of passion inside of him and you hold onto the glimmer like it's your life force. 

You find yourselves stumbling onto the bed in a haze of kisses and touches and removing more articles of clothing. He's on top of you, kissing down your neck, stopping to nip at your collarbone, and traveling back up to your lips. There are only two articles of clothing separating you two. You grip his back, covered in uneven rows of scars and craters from his darkest days. You try to ignore the memories. He's stopped kissing and started staring. His eyes are wide and cautious, as if he's in a situation that isn't dangerous quite yet, but if he slips up, it could be. They glitter like polished rubies and light up like hell fire being fueled by sin. His teeth scrape his bottom lip. His gaze falls from your eyes to your chest, which is fully exposed at this point. His lips part, as if he's getting ready to say something. You pray he does. You want so desperately to hear his voice.

“Babe,” You try not to celebrate out loud. It's such a small victory, but at this point you'll take what you can get. “Shit...” It's so quiet that you almost don't hear it, but you definitely see the flush of red in his cheeks, turning his normally pale freckles a slightly brighter orange.He doesn't bother to finish whatever thought he was planning on conveying, because suddenly your panties are no where to be found and your legs are up on his shoulders. You begin to wonder if you're flexible enough for whatever he's planning. He plays with you a little, using his fingers to make sure that you're aroused and slick, which you are, before his tongue finds its way inside you.

The sex itself isn't electric or intense, but careful and slow and boring. It's exactly what he needs. It's later that night where you find yourself bend over a desk, taking him from behind, hard and fast. It is electric this time. It's rough and intense. He finds all the places that make you scream in all the ways you can. He speaks so lewdly to you that it doesn't even sound like his voice anymore. Your finger nails scratch at the wood of the desk. Papers go flying. You knock over a pencil holder in your attempt to find something to grab onto. He kisses your neck. You lose it. 

The aftercare he gives you feels better than the sex. He cherishes you, wrapping you in your favorite blue blanket and holding you close. His plants soft, sweet kisses on the top of your head and to your temples. You watch Disney movies and your favorite TV shows. You wrap your arms around him, afraid to let go. It's comfortable, it's safe, and it's sweet. You think you'll stay like this for a while. 

You wake up the next morning still wrapped in your blue blanket, still tucked away safe in his arms. You pick up coffee and pastries for breakfast, like you've been craving for the past few weeks. He drives the two of you home, his mind farther away than it's been in a long time. There isn't much talking, or smiling, or laughing. He's not depressed, you don't think, but he's not happy either. He's spacey and distant and too lost in thought for very much communication. Your morning ends with rough sex that leaves you crying and broken. 

You're exhausted. You can't spend all of your time worrying about him and tending to him and making him feel better. He's a hopeless case, you begin to realize. You're unhappy with the relationship, he's unhappy with everything. You're both as miserable with your choices as you can be. You know that you can't keep holding onto the idea of him forever. You leave without explanation, just for one night to get away. You find yourself at a bar in Portland, drowning yourself in pity and guilt. You order a glass of bourbon, and then two more. You don't want to drink too much, but you also want to drink so much that you can't feel. You don't know what to do about Dave and you don't know what to do about your relationship. 

“You look like shit.” It's a voice you recognize, but you haven't heard for a very long time. You wonder if it's worth turning around and having a conversation with him. 

“Hi Karkat.”

“Hey fucker.”

He's as unpleasant as ever. You haven't spoken to him since high school, and you had been planning on keeping it that way. 

“Seriously, you look like shit. What the fuck is wrong?” 

He sounds like he's genuinely concerned for your well being. You aren't actually surprised because even though Karkat had never been particularly sympathetic, he had always been a good listener. 

“I guess you could say it's boy troubles.” You say with a sigh and then proceed to down a shot of whiskey. 

“Who's the asshole?”

“The same asshole it was in high school. The one with the sunglasses and freckles.”

“Strider?” He asks

“Strider.” You confirm. “He's just been difficult. I mean, he's always been difficult, I guess, but it was something I had been hoping he'd grow out of.”

“You thought he'd grow out of his complete and utter douche bagery?” 

“I don't think you understand, Karkat. You're remembering the over confident Dave who teased you relentlessly and talked back to asshole teachers and refused to take his sunglasses off, even for prom. You're remembering the cool kid, who took ironic selfies and spit free-style raps that never really made sense, but sounded kind of cool. You're remembering the Dave who kept a level head no matter what happened and even reflected everything with sarcasm and sass. You're remembering who he let you remember.” You're sure that if you continue you're going to start bawling. “But that's not really who he is, that person you think you used know. The Dave I remember is fragile and moody. He's anxious and awkward and puts on a bullshit facade because he doesn't like who he is, but loves who he could be. The Dave I know is great at everything he tries, but can only see his work and effort as a failure. He beats himself up over small things and can't work up the courage to try again. He's not an asshole, he's a human. He's flawed and he knows it, but absolutely hates it. I love both Daves, but I don't know how much more of the second Dave -the real Dave- I can take before I break down.” 

Karkat's quiet and you worry that what you said was far too heavy for someone you haven't seen in five years. But after a moment, he nods. 

“I think you're forgetting that he was my friend too. Not that we were particularly good friends, but he was vulnerable around me more than once. Like, high school was shit. It was essentially a huge popularity contest for fuck ass's that couldn't find any sense of self, so they mooched off other people just to feel human. And everyone did that. But,” He falters, taking a sip of what you can only assume is water. Karkat was never one to love alcohol. “I mean, I guess Dave was different. Like, on the one hand, he cared way too much about first impressions and what people thought, but on the other hand.... he really didn't. I know he put on a facade, but it really felt like he was just being himself. He wasn't a poser and I really think he tried to distance himself from that crowd of nobodies trying too hard to be somebodies. I don't know, I guess he was just.....Dave.” Karkat sighs and orders a gin and tonic. You think this is the first time he's consumed alcohol since the parties from five years ago that he never wanted to attend. 

You decide against anymore bourbon or whiskey, considering that hard liquor doesn't mix well with driving and your head is feeling a little fuzzy. “I guess this is the nostalgia talking, but do you remember the shitty parties he always dragged us too? The ones where he did too many drugs and drank too many alcoholic drinks?”

A smile tugs at Karkat's lips. He stares at his glass for a moment before downing the whole thing. He doesn't flinch at all. “I remember him and Terezi taking LSD in the school library and building a town made of soup cans. They even made their weird friend who never spoke the mayor of it. He wore that sash for years. Shit, they got in so much trouble.”

You don't particularly like that memory. It was funny, the making of the town and all the shit in it, but you can't forget the look on Dave's face when he got out of the principles office. It broke you. 

“Yeah, but I'm talking about the parties. When he blew a line of coke on the host's bathroom counter Junior year and somehow found himself sitting with a group of heavy stoners playing spin the bottle when we were Freshmen. They seem so lame and juvenile now, don't they?”

Karkat orders another drink, this time a can of Schlitz, which he loudly claims is like throwing up, but in reverse. You laugh. 

“They were fucking horrible. I only ever did shit once, when Terezi and Gamzee managed to convince me to eat that fucking brownie. I knew it had pot in it, but for some reason I just ate it anyway like a goddamn asshole. I also drank a little, too, but that was the extent of my bad assery. I never really found the appeal in that shit.” He downs the rest of his disgusting beverage, wincing as he swallows it. “I have a feeling Dave didn't either.”

You think about this, quickly deciding that he's wrong. A high was Dave's way of escaping reality and the alcohol was his way of coping. He never bothered to face anything that was going on with him, but it was his way of avoiding self harm, at least for a little while. He never found pleasure in the drugs or the alcohol and they never helped him, but that didn't stop him from trying. 

“Sex helped him a lot.” You're just thinking out loud at this point, wondering whether or not Karkat will be able to follow your train of thought. Surprisingly, he doesn't look confused, but rather nods in understanding. You continue. “I mean, it was sort of a reality escape. If he mixed drugs and sex together, he felt like he was on top of the world. I guess I just played along because I wanted to see him happy, but now that I think about it, I never really enjoyed any of it.”

“So... you regret sleeping with him?”

“I just wish I had waited a little longer. I lost my virginity so much earlier than I had planned to and I told myself at the time that it was what I wanted but it wasn't.” You feel like you've exposed yourself. You need to wrap your arms around yourself and run to your car, where it's safe and familiar. You didn't intend to put yourself out there so much. But you suppose that he picks up on how uncomfortable you're suddenly feeling because he doesn't push you to keep talking. 

You do end up driving home, despite the fuzziness in your head and the nostalgia stirring in he back of your mind. When you get home near midnight, Dave's sitting on the couch watching TV. You sneak up behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing kisses to the top of his head. He unwraps himself from you and gets up. He presses his lips to yours, warm and slightly chapped. You give him a small peck back. 

You fall in love with him all over again. Its that night that you spend until the earliest hours of the morning cuddling and watching movies and giving each other sweet, chaste kisses. You feel like you're in middle school again and everything is okay. And maybe, just maybe, it will be.


End file.
